


Mission Accomplished

by perdiccas



Category: Alias, Lost
Genre: Community: xover_exchange, Crossover, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Snow and Ice, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the death of Adam Rutherford, the famed Rutherford necklace surfaces briefly on the collectors market. Before a sale can be arranged, the necklace vanishes from the Rutherford home, rumoured to have been stolen—“repossessed”—by Rutherford’s daughter. Newly allied to SD-6, Sark’s mission is to acquire the stolen necklace by any means necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission Accomplished

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ciaimpala](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ciaimpala).



> Thanks & ♥ to aurilly for betaing and making this 1000% better than it was before, and also for running this exchange, writing me the most amazing fic, being a fantastic co-mod and generally being a superior human being!

**Gstaad**

Sark enters the lodge and locates the target in less time than it takes to shake the melting snow from his hair. He keeps her in his peripheral vision as he sits at the bar; the warmth from the fireplace chases the lingering chill from his skin and the brandy he orders courses a pleasant burn down his throat. When he's exchanged enough inanities with the bartender to judge he's won the man's goodwill, he leans forward with a cocky smile. "You wouldn't by chance happen to know the name of the stunning blonde over there?"

The bartender smirks knowingly. "Ahhh, Miss Rutherford, elle est bonne, eh? You would like me to send her a bottle of champagne?"

"No," Sark replies, "Thank you, but I think I'd do better delivering it myself."

With a silver bucket in one hand and two champagne flutes held easily in the other, Sark approaches Shannon where she’s sequestered in an armchair. She doesn’t acknowledge him as he approaches, gazing steadily through the picture windows at the unchanging tableau of snow-laden trees instead. The golden necklace rests on her décolletage.

"I couldn't help but notice you sitting here all alone," he starts, laying the charm on thick. "I'm travelling alone myself and I thought perhaps we could keep each other company for a little while."

She finally looks up at him, running her eyes up and down the length of him and not bothering to be subtle about it. "How many times has that line actually worked for you?" she asks, her voice flat with boredom.

"Including this time?" Sark replies, grinning as he seats himself in the chair beside hers. "I'm hoping for 'one'."

"You're gonna wanna check your math on that." She flicks her hair over her shoulder, irritably, and doesn’t look back when she walks away.

Sark slumps back against the cushions, nodding when the bartender shoots a sympathetic grimace his way.

This is going to be more fun than he anticipated.

 

**Los Angeles, 48 Hours Earlier**

"As some of you may be aware," Sloane says, addressing the briefing room, "many of the Rambaldi documents refer to a necklace he designed for a family member’s marriage trousseau. Although it was given as a personal gift, scholars believe it unlikely that Rambaldi would have passed up the opportunity to encode something significant in the complex filigree work. The necklace, passed down from mother to daughter, moved between family lines, and its exact whereabouts were lost to history in the mid-18th century. Scholars have identified a number of necklaces that might be the Rambaldi piece, but as many of the contenders are still in private possession and their owners refuse permission to have them examined, no one has been able to narrow it down further than five potential candidates.

“Earlier this year, one of these necklaces briefly surfaced on the market. With Adam Rutherford's passing, his widow, Sabrina Carlyle had the Rutherford Necklace appraised, and planned to offer it for private sale. After examining the necklace myself, I determined it was indeed Rambaldi's work."

"I take it something went wrong?" Sark interjects into Sloane's dramatic pause. "Because as scintillating as this tale is, I doubt we'd be hearing it if everything had gone according to plan."

Sydney forces herself to swallow a smile at the look of irritation that flashes over Sloane's face, and then scowls herself when Sark catches her amusement and winks.

"You are correct, Mr. Sark. Before SD-6 was able to close the deal, the necklace was stolen from the Rutherford home. Although nothing has been proven formally, we strongly suspect Rutherford's daughter, Shannon to be the culprit. Her relationship with her step-mother has by all accounts been an acrimonious one and being cut out of her father's will in favour of Carlyle and her son, it stands to reason Miss Rutherford might attempt to reclaim what she considers part of her rightful inheritance."

"If I remember correctly," Sydney says, "Adam Rutherford died over a year ago. Why are we only moving on this now?"

"Our hands have been tied," Sloane explains. "We've been keeping a close eye on Shannon Rutherford's whereabouts for a while now. She's spent the last six months as an au pair in the home of a wealthy French businessman. As long as she remained in that position, the CIA deemed it politically unwise to move forward on the issue; the DoD have several high profile contracts with his company.

"Luckily for SD-6, a recent scandal has provided us with a window of opportunity. Having been advised by an anonymous source that Rutherford and her husband were engaging in some very personal _tête-à-têtes_ , Phillipe's wife threw Shannon out of their house 12 hours ago and counting. We have no reason to believe there will be a reconciliation any time soon."

"Are we anticipating she will return to the US?" Dixon asks, thoughtfully. "We could intervene at customs and swap the necklace for a replica under the guise of a baggage inspection."

"An excellent plan, Agent Dixon. However, we have reliable intel informing us that Rutherford and this man," he indicates to the projector screen as the image changes from one of Shannon and her father at a charity ball to a broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, dressed in a dark, elegantly cut suit, "Kyle Barton, plan to spend the next two weeks vacationing in Gstaad, Switzerland.

"Barton and Rutherford grew up in the same social circle. They reconnected in Paris earlier this month and there's some speculation that Barton is the one who informed Dominique of her husband's extra-marital activities. He's a regular at the private ski lodge they will be staying at in Gstaad.” Sloane shuts off the projector. “Mr. Sark, your plane leaves in an hour."

"What?" Sydney blurts out. At the far end of the boardroom table, Sark preens. Sydney mentally kicks herself for letting him see her ruffled. She takes a deep breath and says more calmly, "With all due respect, sir, Sark is an unknown quantity in our organisation..."

"All the more reason then for him to prove his worth. Sydney, you'll leave for Paris immediately. Barton's father has recently begun monitoring his son’s indolent lifestyle, so Barton has taken to travelling separately from his companions. You should have no problem intercepting him and incapacitating him. Finding herself stood up should leave Rutherford more open to Mr. Sark’s advances. Given the high priority of the mission, Mr. Sark, you have been cleared to use any means necessary. At your discretion, of course."

"Sir," Sydney says through gritted teeth, "I really think we need someone who has already proven themselves loyal to SD-6 on this one. If Sark messes this up, we have no way of knowing where or when we'll get another opportunity to acquire the Rambaldi necklace. If I go with Sark—"

"Agent Bristow," Sloane says firmly, effectively cutting her off. “You have a plane to catch.”

Before she can answer, he turns back to the room at large and says, "Marshall will explain the Op Tech."

 

**Gstaad**

“Oi, can’t you see the queue?!”

Sark ignores the irate shout, zipping past an orderly line of people waiting to ascend the slopes. He hops onto the ski lift next to Shannon. His skis cut through the snow as he does, a spray of ice hitting the angry British tourist squarely in his ruddy face. Shannon seems unperturbed by the way the hanging seat sways, jostled as it is by Sark's sudden arrival. As they pull away, slowly climbing up the mountainside, Shannon twists around to look behind them. The man is still stamping his feet in the snow, hurling curses in their direction.

She purses her lips. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

“Perhaps." Sark concedes easily. She doesn't sound reproachful; if anything he detects amusement in her otherwise flat tone. Whether that's amusement at Sark's expense or their unfortunate friend's, however, he can't be sure. After taking a moment to consider her words, Sark adds, "He didn’t strike me as a very nice person.”

“Hardly anyone is.”

That's... unexpectedly cryptic. Sloane's briefing at SD-6 had painted Shannon as a flighty, inconsequential young woman. He wonders if losing her father has turned her introspective. “That’s a rather uncharitable view of humanity,” he probes.

“You wanted to get to know me.” She shrugs, unwilling to elaborate. “Now you know.”

“Touché.” Sark says. “Julian Sark.”

“Shannon Rutherford,” she replies, accepting his handshake. “But I’m guessing you already knew that. Still buddying it up with the creep behind the bar?”

"Ahhh, Gaston," Sark says with an air of profound disappointment. "All the passion of a Frenchman, and all the class of a wild boar...” He trails off as Shannon unwinds and readjusts her scarf; the Rambaldi glints in the sunlight, brightly reflected off the vast expanse of snow below them. “Still, when one travels alone, one must find company where one may.”

“Tell me about it,” Shannon snaps but her irritation feels pro forma, as if she’s so used to being contrary it’s become her second nature.

“When I was younger, I dreamed of going to places like this.” Sark gestures expansively at the scenery and gives a self-deprecating laugh. “At school, there was never a moment’s peace, constantly surrounded by the other boys... This much vast, empty space would have been like stumbling into an unknown Eden.”

It’s curious sometimes how well his truths can fit amongst the lies.

“And now?” she asks. Her voice has lost some of the edge it had before.

He regards her intently, an easy grin spreading across his face. “A lot can be said for a partner in crime.”

The ski lift nears their destination, the angle of the overhead cable levelling out, no longer climbing the slope so much as running parallel to the peak. They don’t have more than a minute before they arrive and intrigued or not, Sark is certain Shannon won’t hang around for him to complete the mission.

 

**Los Angeles, 48 Hours Earlier**

“So, uh, hi," Marshall says cheerily as he stands. He wilts a little when Sark narrows his eyes in response to his enthusiastic wave.

Pointedly, Sloane clears his throat.

Marshall snaps to attention, tugging a pair of ski goggles from the bag of tricks in front of him. "Here we have a pair of..." Marshall pauses dramatically, holding them up for everyone to see. “May I?” he asks, and when Sark nods, he fits them over his eyes with exaggerated care, tugging at the elastic once or twice to find the perfect fit. "...ski goggles!"

Sark looks around the room through the amber cast of the glare resistant lenses."I would never have guessed.”

His sarcasm flies right over Marshall's head, who barrels on excitedly, "But these aren't just _any_ ski goggles. One touch here—" Marshall's finger brushes the tip of Sark's ear, pressing lightly on a button concealed in the head strap. Instantly Sark's field of vision is cluttered with data. "—and you can see your exact coordinates, your altitude, the ambient temperature; I even threw in a line of code so you'll always have directions to the nearest point of local interest."

"That's certainly useful," Sark deadpans again. Marshall nods so vigorously, his body bounces like a Jack-in-the-box on the end of its spring. Impulsively, he peels the goggles off Sark's face, taking considerably less care then he had to put them on.

“Oh, let me just, uh...” Marshall makes an abortive movement to pat Sark’s hair down. He spits in his palm at the last second, and Sark only barely flinches quick enough to avoid it. “Right,” Marshall says, looking from Sark’s dishevelled hair to his soiled palm and back again, eventually wiping his hand clean on the end of his tie. He picks up the goggles again, seemingly refocused. "Say you need to clear the airwaves, or fry a computer, you can just..." Belatedly, it dawns on Sark where this is going but Marshall's finger is already on the second button. "...like so!” he says gleefully, stopping cold when the room goes dark. They sit in complete silence, without even the hum of the overhead lights buzzing in the air.

“...it functions like an EMP," Marshall explains regretfully while Dixon tries to cover his laughter with a cough. Sark swallows a chuckle himself, surprised to find he’s more amused than exasperated at Marshall’s unprofessional antics. The man’s machines precede him, Sark reasons; it’s hard to write him off as a buffoon when it’s as much luck as it is skill that’s kept Sark from being caught in one of his high-tech traps by now.

Sark moves nimbly through the darkened room. He reaches the emergency breaker box in time to throw a spotlight on Marshall: tripping head over heels over Sark’s vacated chair, landing squarely in Sloane’s lap.

 _Well,_ Sark amends. _Not_ just _a buffoon._

 

**Gstaad**

Sark runs his finger along the goggles’ thick plastic frame, casually depressing the button as he goes. The ski lift jolts to a sudden halt. This time Shannon yelps in surprise, clutching desperately at the crossbar. Her body tenses as the bench seat sways wildly in the air. But when Sark reaches out to steady her, she shrugs him off, quickly regaining her composure. “The most expensive ski resort in the world and no one remembered to pay the electric bill?”

It’s not just the ski lift that’s dead in the air. On the horizon, a pair of busted snowmobiles stutter to a stop, the all encompassing blackout frying their internal circuitry.

Sark feigns mild distress, saying, “I’m sure it’s just a glitch. We’ll be moving again momentarily.”

Shannon swings her feet back and forth until the seat is gently rocking. Then to Sark’s surprise, she wriggles under the safety rail, inching closer to the edge. “Patience has never been my strong suit.”

They’re not impossibly far up, but it’s still a risky drop. He leans precariously forward to watch her land in the powdery snow. She bends her knees as she does, sending up a cloud of ice with the impact, and that’s probably all that saves her from a fractured ankle, a broken leg. She catches her balance quickly, turns and peers at Sark still dangling up above.

“You coming?”

Sark grins.

***

Shannon is more than a competent skier.

The coordinates in the corner of Sark’s field of vision scroll by rapidly as they slalom aimlessly down the slope. If she’s leading him anywhere in particular, it has to be off the beaten track—Marshall’s oh-so-nifty monument locater has nothing listed for their immediate locale. But whenever Sark inches in front, trying to steer them back towards the lodge, Shannon ignores him, careening ahead on a path of her own making.

She stops at a sturdy looking wooden building. She doesn’t offer an explanation, simply kicks off her skis to prop them against a wall. It’s up to Sark to follow if he wants.

He does.

It’s the smell hits him first. Sark wrinkles his nose delicately, surprised that of all places, this is Shannon’s destination. Still, the barn is unexpectedly warm, neatly lined with insulating bales of hay and otherwise standing empty; the cattle have long since been moved down to their winter pastures.

There is a fireplace in the corner in front of which Sark crouches down, striking a match in an effort to get a fire roaring. Shannon comes to lean against the rustic mantelpiece. Sark looks up at her, his gaze skimming up the elegant line of her legs; it’s an enviable position to be in.

“I used to come here with my brother,” she says. “His mom. My dad. Sometimes we just wanted to escape...”

He wonders if that’s what she’s doing now.

Sark stands, reaches out to brush her hair back from her face but she twists away, laughs brashly. She kicks the wall. “It smells like cow shit in here,” she spits, suddenly bristling.

She grabs her skis again to go.

 

**Los Angeles, 48 Hours Earlier**

Sloane sits poker straight while Marshall scrambles off his knees.

"Sorry, sorry," he mutters, frantically brushing lint from Sloane’s pants. Sloane grabs him by the wrists and firmly moves his hands away. "Let’s resume the briefing, please."

Sark rights his chair and sits again with studied nonchalance; Marshall places a pair of ski boots on the conference table.

"These are just your everyday winter footwear...with a little something extra: in case of an emergency, you can stamp the heel..." He demonstrates a move that wouldn’t look out of place at a hoedown. "...to create a diversion."

The blackout may have been an inconvenience but it was still far more illuminating than the sombre two-step shuffle Marshall is currently doing across the floor. Dixon intervenes. “Marshall,” he prods gently. "What kind of diversion are we talking about?"

"Oh!" Marshall doesn't stay subdued for long, especially not in the face of someone taking an interest in his gadgets. "Used correctly, it produces a vibrating pulse that will shake the ground equivalent to a tremor of Magnitude 4 on the Richter scale. It's not enough to cause buildings any structural damage," he adds apologetically, "but you could use it to displace a significant wall of snow if you needed to clear a path." He thinks for a moment and adds, "Or to block a path if you're being followed, but uh, I was told Mr. Sark wasn't expecting to run into trouble. I haven't prepared any offensive tech..."

Sark cuts him off before he can fret himself into a frenzy. "And if they’re used incorrectly?"

"What?"

"You said if used correctly the boots can relocate snow banks; what happens if they’re used incorrectly?"

"If you get the angles wrong, you'll be buried in an avalanche." Marshall waves his hand like the possibility is inconsequential, but Sark calculates the risk. Impacted snow can set like concrete and even with Marshall's magical goggles broadcasting his GPS, this mission is a test. Unless he has the Rambaldi in hand, Sloane might argue Sark’s extraction from an avalanche would be a waste of SD-6 resources. It’s what Sark would do if their positions were reversed.

 

**Gstaad**

The ground shakes beneath their feet. A tidal wave of snow hurtles toward them, rapidly gathering speed. Shannon shrieks in horror, seemingly frozen in place. Sark grabs her around the waist, pulling her back inside the barn. He slams his shoulder against the heavy door, shoving it closed behind them. He pulls Shannon close to him, curling his body around hers as they sink to the ground; the wooden walls of the barn creak ominously under the strain of the avalanching snow.

They stay like that for a minute, then five minutes more, shivering in each other's embrace. Just as Marshall had promised, the building stays standing.

Eventually, Shannon starts to squirm. Sark loosens his grip, and she takes a steadying breath, pushing herself back onto her feet. The inside of the barn is darker now, the windows completely submerged beneath the snowline. In the faint glow of the kindling fire, Shannon's face is drawn. She touches her fingers to the Rambaldi, clinging to it like a rosary; Sark suspects she's in shock.

"You've gotta be kidding me," she says, tracing her finger over the window as if she could somehow wipe the snow away from the other side. "Okay, very funny," she tells the universe at large. "Any time you wanna get us out of here..."

"We're going to be fine," Sark soothes from where he's relocated to a pile of straw beside the fire; it’s surprisingly comfortable, despite the lingering smell of cattle.

She comes to sit beside him.

"They'll send someone for us soon."

Shannon laughs sarcastically. "No one knows we're out here."

"They'll notice we're not there when we fail to pay our bills.”

She smiles weakly. “If there's one thing ritzy places like this hate, it's getting stiffed.” Adding, “Boone’s gonna be pissed if we die and he gets stuck with the check.”

“Your brother?” Step-brother, he knows. They haven’t spoken since Shannon left for Paris.

She mimics Sark’s accent, “My partner in crime.”

A truth so old it’s tarnished into a lie.

She shakes the pendant absently on the end of its chain. Sark covers her hand with his, stilling her restless fingers.

He can’t pretend it’s not about the mission, ever present and always at the forefront on his mind, but as he leans in, her breath warm on his skin and her lips soft on his, he thinks maybe he can give her something, too, for everything he has to take away.

* * *

"Agent Vaughn, she's in here, sir!"

Shannon stirs at the man's shout, the scraping sound of snow being dug away, the urgent tramp of heavy boots on the barn's wooden floors.

"God dammit, the fire's gone out. Get an EMT in here, stat. We need to warm her up before hypothermia—"

"Get your hands off me," Shannon snaps, slapping someone's hands away as they reach to feel her pulse. She sits carefully, keeping her legs closed and tucked demurely to the side. The room is filled with men who look like extras from the latest Mission Impossible; even good ol’ Agent Vaughn is sporting a bullet-proof vest. She sweeps her sleep-tousled hair from her face.

"I'm fine," she says, realising as she says it that while the makeshift bed is cold and empty beside her, Sark has left his jacket tucked around her. Somehow it radiates a gentle heat that keeps her warm even in her nudity. She pulls it tighter around her body.

"Shannon..." Vaughn says. His voice is gentle and concerned, and suddenly she’s sick of all this cloak and dagger bullshit. She hates that he roped her into this but has the gall to doubt she pulled it off.

She yanks the collar of Sark's jacket open, showing off the bare skin of her neck, a tantalising flash of cleavage. "See?" she demands, refusing to back down until he looks. "It's done. Sark took the bait and doesn’t suspect a thing. Can I get dressed now?"

Vaughn swallows thickly. The room is tense with the uncomfortable silence that follows. "Sure," he says after a beat. "Yeah, absolutely. Guys, let's give Miss Rutherford some privacy."

Shannon pulls on her ski pants while Vaughn averts his eyes.

 

**Gstaad, 24 hours earlier**

"The Prom Queen is entering the building."

"Roger that," Vaughn replies under his breath as he brings his coffee cup to his mouth to mask the movement of his lips. "I'll throw a ticker tape parade." Over the top of his newspaper, he watches Shannon make her way to reception desk.

Her luggage is an over-sized pink monstrosity that probably holds everything she owns—last Vaughn heard, Rutherford was _persona non grata_ in Paris high society—but she hands it to the bellhop with the casual self-assurance of someone used to being waited on.

At the counter there's a problem. "There must be some mistake," Shannon insists.

"Non, mademoiselle. Je suis désolée, but there is no reservation for M. Barton at this time. I handle all of our priority guest arrangements personally. If M. Barton was to be staying with us, I can assure you, I would be aware of it. Perhaps the booking is under another name?"

The concierge's hair is swept back in a severe French twist; she wears a smile that's polite but cold. At Shannon's hesitation, Vaughn can see the contempt in her eyes: it's clear she suspects Rutherford of less than honourable intentions, a jilted lover here to make a scene or a fortune-hunting working girl.

By now Shannon is on the phone, her features pinched tight in irritation. Vaughn doesn't have to eavesdrop to know Barton won't be answering. Sydney is excellent at her job and unfortunately for Vaughn that means Kyle Barton has probably been unconscious for the past six hours. Shannon snaps her cell phone shut, turning back to the reception staff. "His phone is off," she says defiantly. "His plane must still be in the air. I'm sure he'll straighten this out as soon as he lands."

The concierge taps at her keyboard, looks at Rutherford with something akin to pity. "There are no delays reported at the airport."

Vaughn slips away from the mounting confrontation, staying close enough to keep an eye on the proceedings but far enough that he won't be overheard. "You catch all that, Weiss?" he says into the comm embedded in his cufflink. "If Rutherford doesn't check in, we'll never get to that necklace before Sark does."

"Even if I do hack in a reservation," Weiss's voice crackles in Vaughn's ear, "the hotel prides itself on itsservice. Every VIP who books a room there speaks to that woman behind the counter when they do it. Unless you can convince her she's suffering from short term memory loss, there's no way we're sneaking this one in."

"I'll wait in the bar," Shannon says in exasperation. But she's stopped from storming off by a well dressed man who clutches her by the elbow firmly.

"The lodge facilities are for guests only, madame." The security guard steers her inexorably toward the exit. The bellhop follows gloomily with her luggage.

"Look alive, Weiss. We're gonna have to wing it," Vaughn says quickly, stepping forward before Shannon ends up tossed out on her ass.

"Fräulein Rutherford," he says in a crisp Swiss German accent. "My sincerest apologies."

Shannon shrugs off the heavy, squaring her shoulders as she sizes him up. "Do I know you?"

"No," he says with brisk efficiency. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance." As he talks, he eases them back toward the reception desk, Shannon's luggage and the bellhop dragging it, trailing them again like a hot pink shadow. "We do however share a common, shall we say... friend in Herr Barton, do we not?"

Shannon's expression is shrouded with suspicion but she nods. From the corner of his eye, he sees the concierge lean in discretely to overhear. "Well, as you know, Kyle and his father... they do not always see to eye to eye. He asked me to reserve your rooms on his behalf. What Herr Barton Senior doesn't know..." he says trailing off.

The concierge nods unconsciously, forgetting to pretend she wasn’t listening in. Vaughn's story matches up with the rumours he knows she has to have heard about Barton and his tenuous grasp on his inheritance. "There should be a second suite reserved in my name."

"Of course, M. Bachmann." She scans the computer screen for reservations under Vaughn’s alias. Weiss says, "Give me thirty more seconds, buddy, and Rutherford has the room adjoining yours."

"I'm sorry— Ah, yes. Here we are, M. Bachmann, Room 31 _and_ Room 32." She turns to Shannon with a begrudging smile. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mme. Rutherford, but you must understand we—"

Shannon snatches the card key from her hand, dismissing her with a snide, "Yeah, whatever."

Vaughn follows as she stalks to the elevators, ordering over his shoulder, "Have hot chocolate for two sent up, if you please."

***

The ride up in the elevator is tense. In Room 32, Shannon directs the bellhop to heave her luggage onto the bed, then steps back, leaving Vaughn to tip the kid. He’s barely closed the door behind him when Shannon rounds on Vaughn. “Okay, Herr Men In Black, you wanna tell me what’s really going on?”

“It is exactly as I said—” Vaughn blusters.

“Cut the crap,” Shannon says, rolling her eyes. “And lose the accent. No offense but you’re not exactly the kind of guy Kyle hangs out with. Suits aren’t really his type.”

Vaughn curses under his breath; Shannon’s right, a party boy like Barton and a straight-laced Swiss German banker like his cover Bachmann make for an unlikely pair. He’s about to take Weiss’s whispered advice to _fake it until you make it_ when Shannon continues, unpacking her suitcase haphazardly as she speaks. “Look, dude, I don’t know if you have some kind of Pretty Woman complex going on or what, but if you want to pay for my room then knock yourself out. Just don’t think your money gets you a free pass to anything else.”

Shannon looks up from a pile of sweaters and winter skirts to look Vaughn in the eyes. “So why don’t you go back to your room and I’ll stay here and when Kyle finally decides to show up, we’ll straighten this out.”

Her expression registers as something more like boredom than genuine distress. She jerks her head towards the door, urging Vaughn to hurry up and leave. It occurs to him that this isn’t the first time she’s thrown an unwanted man from her bedroom; she’s standing with her hip cocked, calm in the expectation that Vaughn will obey, confident in her ability to defend herself if he doesn’t.

He thinks the US government has underestimated Shannon Rutherford.

He hopes to god SD-6 has too.

He reaches into his inside jacket pocket but Shannon’s even sharper than he imagined; she whips a can of pepper spray from her carry on, and gets him smack in the face. He barely manages to shield his eyes in time.

“Miss Rutherford,” he coughs, blinking carefully as he steps out of the noxious cloud that hangs in the air. “Shannon, my name is Agent Vaughn. I’m with the CIA.”

Shannon stares at him, lowering the can just a fraction as she studies Vaughn’s proffered ID. “What’s going on?” she demands.

“We took Mr Barton into protective custody in Paris earlier today.”Vaughn figures that’s close enough to the truth. “We have every reason to believe your life might also be in danger.”

She snorts in disbelief. “Yeah, right. Let me guess, you’re here to put me in _protective custody_ , too? If you think I’m letting you put handcuffs on me—”

“Not you, your necklace.”Vaughn says, interrupting Shannon’s snark.

Stunned to silence, she absently touches her fingers to the pendant in question. She shakes her head, her voice dripping with scorn. “I should have known. Did Sabrina put you up to this? That conniving bitch...”

“Your step-mother has nothing to do with this.” Vaughn insists, talking more urgently now, swift and business-like.

Through the comm. Weiss tells him, “You’d better know what you’re doing. You mess this up and Syd will wear your guts for garters.” He says it like he doesn’t for a second believe Vaughn will be fucking up today; Vaughn appreciates the vote of confidence.

“Ms. Carlyle doesn’t know you’re in Switzerland. If you cooperate, she’ll never have to find out.”

“Are you blackmailing me?” Shannon asks. She regards Vaughn with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

He holds up his hands in mock-innocence, drawling, “Blackmail? I prefer to see it as providing you with the appropriate incentive to help protect and serve your country.”

“This is bullshit. I’m the one in danger. You’re supposed to protect and serve _me_!”

“Technically,” Vaughn says seriously, “I’m supposed to protect and serve our country by locking up any criminals I come across.”

Shannon opens her mouth to defend herself but Vaughn carries on, talking over her protests. “Now, look, I happen to think the only crime here is calling it stealing when a daughter does anything it takes to stop a keepsake of her late father from being sold in cold blood. But I’m not the one who makes the laws, I just enforce them.” He pauses dramatically to make his point but Shannon scowls at him, clearly not appreciating the moment as much as he does. “You have two choices: either you can cooperate with the CIA and when we’re done, we’ll pretend we have no idea where you are or how to find you, or I can take you into custody now and have you extradited back to the United States.”

He looks at Shannon hard and adds, “Let’s not do the second one, please. I hate filling out all that paperwork.”

“Fine,” Shannon says grudgingly. “What do you need me to do?”

Vaughn holds up the replica necklace. “Just give me that one and wear this instead. You’ll get the real one back when this is all over.”

“That’s it?” Shannon’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“That’s it.” Vaughn promises. “And if anyone tries to steal it,” he adds. “Let them take it.”

“I thought my life was in danger?”

Vaughn nods, conceding the point. “The people we have identified as a threat are after your necklace, not you specifically. But if you put up a fight, you’ll be collateral damage. There’s a GPS locater embedded in the pendant,” he adds reassuringly. “If anything goes wrong, I promise we’ll get you out of it.”

 

**Gstaad**

By the time the EMTs are done checking her over and they’re back, safe at the lodge, Shannon is fuming. “You know, when you promised to get me out of this mess if things went wrong,” she says, pacing Room 31 angrily, “I was kind of expecting you to be quick about it.”

Vaughn winces; it’s bad enough to lose contact with a trained and capable agent. Recruiting a civilian and letting communications go dark is unforgivable. “I’m sorry,” he says, adding by way of explanation, “The EMP Sark detonated to stop the ski lift scrambled our GPS transmitter.”

Shannon stops mid-stomp. “He did that on purpose?”

“Yeah,” Vaughn confirms.

“That asshole,” she says, laughing humourlessly. “Of course he did.”

Vaughn reaches out, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. He wants to say that Sark’s a traitor and a criminal and she’s better off without him, but none of those things would help. She touches her fingers defiantly to the necklace she’s wearing, and Vaughn turns away; the real Rambaldi is halfway to the CIA lab by now with Shannon none the wiser.

He shuffles through some papers on the hotel room desk: a nondisclosure contract for Shannon to sign, a form promising she’ll never sue. They’re the kinds of things Kendall would tan his hide for not securing before the mission went ahead but that every agent knows are usually figured out afterward, once the pressing need to act has passed.

“It took us a while to lock onto your location at all. There isn’t much satellite cover in this area and the avalanche was so contained, it just looked like a slighter bigger pile of snow than the other piles of snow already around here.” Shannon doesn’t reply. Vaughn can’t sure she’s even listening; he keeps his back turned to her as he folds up Sark’s self-insulating jacket and seals it in an evidence bag. “Someone called in the exact coordinates of the barn to the Swiss police. If it wasn’t for that we’d probably still be out there looking. Strange really, because skiers don’t usually pinpoint their location with that kind of accuracy, even when they’re reporting an emergency. And they usually stick around, too, to see if they can help, but we never found the guy who phoned it in. Guess you must have a guardian angel looking out for you.”

Vaughn gives her a few seconds to fill in the blanks before he straightens up and turns around. Shannon’s expression is impassive, but when she takes the pen to sign the stack of forms, her hair falling to shield her face, her lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile.

As she signs, Vaughn reiterates, “I know this all makes for a pretty wild story but you have to keep everything that happened here to yourself. As far as anyone knows, Kyle Barton missed his flight—”

“—And in his absence, I decided to hook up with Herr Bachmann,” Shannon deadpans. “Despite the fact he’s not at all my type. Yeah,” she says tossing the pen back at him. “I got it the first three times you drilled it into my head. Don’t worry,” she adds, “it’s not like anyone’s going to believe _I_ could be the next 007.”

She rolls her eyes so hard, Vaughn wonders how she doesn’t pull a muscle. He grabs her gently by the arm pulling her back around to face him. “They should,” he says with conviction. “Those people? They should believe it because you did great, Shannon. We never would have pulled this off without you.”

They stand quietly for a moment. Shannon’s lips quirk and Vaughn thinks maybe he’s broken through her façade, but she just shakes her head and her face is once again a perfect mask of sarcastic disinterest. “Whatever, Secret Agent Man. Send me my medal in the mail.”

“I’ll do that,” he says, laughing along. “Oh and Shannon...” He hands her a final envelope. “You weren’t officially contracted, so the CIA can’t put you on payroll, but I thought you deserved some compensation for your ruined vacation anyway.”

Shannon stares at the plane ticket. “Sydney, Australia?”

Vaughn shrugs. “I thought you might want to go somewhere warm after this.”

 

_Twenty Minutes Earlier_

From his vantage point on the opposing mountainside, Sark watches the search and rescue team descend on the snowed in building. An air ambulance helicopter circles the scene, throwing up a flurry of white as it gets low enough for an EMT to jump down into fray. It doesn’t take long before they break through the avalanche, but still Sark waits, watching until he sees Shannon escorted from the building.

He turns away, activating the radio wired into his watch. “This is Sark checking in,” he says. “I’m ready for extraction.”

Three minutes later, a second helicopter lands at the rendezvous point, a Red Cross symbol painted prominently on the tail. Dixon, dressed in a paramedic uniform, leans across to open the door. “Everything okay?” he asks as Sark climbs aboard. “I’ve been hovering for half an hour waiting on your call. The Swiss Ski Patrol tried to signal me into a search and rescue; I had to fake comm trouble to get out of it.”

“Everything’s fine.” Sark says blandly. “Just tying up some loose ends.” He pulls the necklace from his pocket, the delicate gold chain held carefully between the fingers of his thick ski gloves. He lets the pendant swing free where Dixon can see it then gathers it up again and tucks it safely away. “Let’s go.”

“Rutherford?” Dixon presses, hesitating with his hand on the throttle.

“It’s taken care of,” Sark replies, refusing to look back.


End file.
